Rebirth
by Blazonix
Summary: Wesley's not too sure on what's going on. He doesn't know why the Loom is back or why a girl with red hair wants him to help her. He does know, however, that the voices in his head are starting to get real annoying...
1. Chapter 1

This is the introductory for a maybe-story. I told myself I wouldn't, but I did. So. I'll post as much as I can, then I'll probably take it down. In any case, this is a Charles-is-Wesley story. I was just going to post this on the kink meme, but I couldn't find the prompt that called for it.

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><p>When Wesley comes home to the abandoned shack that some people call a house, he drops everything before plopping down onto the mattress that he had rescued from the junkyard around the corner. Everything in this tiny room of his came from the junkyard; everything except his equipment which he has spent many hours and much money to keep maintained. His rifle, knives, guns, special bullets—it all costs money. It wouldn't be a problem if he accepted money for his kills, but something in him twists unpleasantly at the idea. When he joined the Fraternity, it was not as a killer-for-hire, but as someone doing something unpleasant for the good of the people.<p>

He sighs as he slings his arm over his eyes and begins to relax; he's had a trying day. He had gotten up at two in the morning to rig both a car and a building to explode while being in position to shoot in case both went wrong. It, as he expected, went off without a hitch. Mr. Cory Anthony, a salesman by day, a crime lord by night, had gotten into his posh ride to his "hidden" warehouse where his thugs were going to begin the release of a deadly chemical that only Mr. Anthony had the cure to. Needless to say, no such chemicals existed anymore.

If only he got paid for these things! Being a stand up citizen definitely had its downsides. He wondered how the Fraternity had managed to ever earn any money before Sloan had come along; the only way he had been getting by was when his targets just happened to have a hit on them. With that _thing_ now issuing the death of obscure people, these "just happenings" were getting harder and harder to come across.

The "thing" was currently sitting in the only other room in the house. It was the bane of his existence. He had no idea how it happened, but one day he had been toying with the idea of joining up with some sort of assassin's guild when _it_ had appeared on the doorstep of the safe house he had been staying in. _It_ was what he had destroyed all those weeks ago. _It_ was what had cost Fox and their brothers their lives. _It_ was a seemingly harmless loom that liked to skip beads here and there.

The damn loom that spelt the name of the target in binary code, the damn loom that had cost his father his life.

He had freaked out, considered burning it, but ultimately decided to keep it, to continue what the Fraternity had tried to be, _to follow the Code._ He couldn't say just why he took it in or continued to read it, but some sort of gut feeling told him all he needed to know.

And now, thanks to that awful thing, he was here, in Annandale-on-Hudson, New York, trying to live off of peanut butter sandwiches for the rest of his life, but at least he was following the _damn_ _Code._ It didn't help that with his dwindling funds, he was also starting to get these goddamn headaches, headaches that felt like something was breaking in his head and where he could have sworn some of these thoughts weren't his own—

It didn't matter; he'd just take some painkillers and get some well deserved rest. He grabs for the small bottle on his falling-apart night stand and just as he's about to down more than he should take he hears the doorbell ring. He stills as frozen as a statue because he doesn't _have_ a doorbell. When it rings again, that mysterious chime that shouldn't be, he can feel his heart beating faster as everything begins slowing down.

He grabs the nearest handgun, the one under his pillow, and makes his way cautiously to the door. He looks at the door with all the locks he had installed on it and wonders if he's being arrogant or foolhardy when he reaches out to undo them. Gun in hand as he undoes the last lock, he feels confident that he can react to anything that is on the other side of this door. He twists the knob, braces himself for anything, and flings the door wide open—

And there is a little girl with the reddest hair he's ever seen staring up at him with solemn eyes.

"I need your help, Mr. Wesley, sir." She says as grave as any girl in a sundress with unicorns on it can.

"Fuck." It's the most eloquent thing he can come up with.


	2. Chapter 2

It takes a moment for him to understand just what it is that he's seeing, but when he realizes that he's just standing there having a staring contest with the weirdest little girl he's ever seen, he slams the door shut without saying a word. He just stares at the back of the door trying to think when his ghost of a doorbell goes off again. He wonders, absently scratching the side of his head with the pistol in his hand, if he's hallucinating. He could have sworn that the medicine he took was still good. Really, if he was going to have a trip he rather it had been with women and cheese—and _damn_ that doorbell, would it ever stop ringing?

Irritated, he flings the door open once more to stare at the little girl who is still standing there.

"How _are_ you doing that?" He demands.

"Well, I suppose I could tell you. Once you invite me in of course. And once you offer me tea and crumpets, not that you have tea or crumpets. Still it's the principle of the thing." She replies rather sternly.

Wesley tries to say something smart, he really does, but no sound seems to come out of his mouth. After a few moments of imitating a fish out of water, he gives up. Wordlessly, he moves aside and while beaming up at him, the strange girl skips right on past him into the house. With a desperate look around, he turns and follows after her, slamming the door behind him. The girl, in what looks like a home-made purple dress, skips on into his bedroom before flopping down onto his mattress. He stands before her unsure and twitchy, gun all but forgotten in his hand. He has a feeling that he should go ahead and kiss his sanity goodbye.

They stare at each other once more, and Wesley isn't even too sure just why he let her in or what it is he should be doing.

"Why-" "My name-" They start at the same time. They stare at each other some more.

"My name is Jean." The girl starts again after a couple of beats of silence.

He waits for her to say something more, but when she keeps silent, he asks her the two top questions on his mind.

"How were you doing that?" He wonders, "How do you know who I am?"

While the first question grates on his nerves more, it is the second one that is more important. He has never left any shred of evidence behind, or so he believes. There should be no way that she could possibly know about him. The idea that this isn't a normal girl is at the very front of his mind.

"I used my mind." She says simply as if that's the answer to the universe.

"You used your mind." He repeats drily.

She seems to understand that whatever she's got going on in that head of hers isn't translating right. So she scrunches up her face in what he supposes is some kind of thinking pose. She nods to herself after a good long minute, and he wonders what she's made her mind up about. Confused, he watches as she raises two tiny hands to her temples, closes her eyes, and begins to hum—and anything else he may have observed is lost as the world spins before him.

"Fuck." It's the last thought he has.

Images flash before him; sounds and voices coming from everywhere—

"_Mommy, Daddy, look what I can do!" _

_A stuffed bear is floating from the floor and there is a scream that comes from somewhere—_

"_Stop it! Stop it! My head!" _

"_I'm not doing it on purpose! Laura, come back! Laura, Laura—WATCH OUT FOR THAT CAR!" _

_There is another scream, this time accompanied by the sound of tires screeching—_

"_I'm so sorry Laura." _

_There is a broken sob. A big hand on a tiny shoulder—_

"_It was an accident. The little brat ran out in front of me, now I've got a mess to clean up. Damn it all, I was gonna take care of the brat tonight without the mess, now they're not gonna give me my car for another couple of months!"_

_A gasp as the words that weren't spoken were heard anyways—_

Ow. Fuck a slut sideways. Damn. His brain feels like some sort of twisted car wreck where he just got t-boned by a fucking semi. He barely manages to open his eyes and he begins to wish he hadn't. He closes them when the world around him is still blurry even after a few moments. He feels like he's ran miles, his heart is racing, and he's breathing heavy. It takes a minute, his head really, _really _hurts, but he goes about calming himself. He focuses on his heart and his breathing, and he wills them to even out. He even manages to feel the girl—Jean—sitting close by; how he knows that she's watching him intently with a frown, he doesn't know.

He feels himself coming back together and he tries to open his eyes again. Fortune is with him as he can see the room as it's supposed to look, even if he now needs more pain medicine. Carefully, he sits up, giving Jean the best glare he can possibly give in his current position. It's not much, but she has the grace to at least look sorry at his plight. He rubs his temples in a soothing manner as he tries to process everything that was pushed into his head.

"So." Is all he can manage, because _damn_. What, exactly is he supposed to say?

"Yes." Jean nods to him in what she no-doubt thinks is a reassuring manner. It's not.

He tries to think for a moment, doing his best to work past the monster of a headache.

"You," he tries again, "are a—" There's a word missing, he's sure of it as he stops mid-sentence.

"I can do things with my mind, tele-something" She supplies helpfully.

He has an idea of what she's trying to say, but that isn't the word he feels has escaped him. It slips past his mind as his mouth almost forms the word. Whatever. This was giving him an even worse headache if that was even possible.

"Why?" He grits out and there is so much meaning behind that one word.

"Because." Says the little girl who has left him lying there on the floor for the more comfortable position on his bed. He watches, a little aggravated, as she begins to bounce in place on his too worn mattress.

"Let me try this again." He says slowly, "Why the fuck did you come to me, how do you know about me, and for the love of God, _why didn't you just tell me about it?"_

Jean stops her bouncing as she regards the assassin on the floor with wisdom clouded eyes.

"You would never have believed me otherwise." He has to admit, she has a point, not that he'll say that. She probably still heard that anyways, he thinks paranoid.

"I know about you because I heard you." She begins; he asks her, not very politely, just what does she mean.

Biting her lip, Jean quietly confesses, "I heard you that day, when you screamed. You screamed very loudly, before everything went silent."

He mouths out, "What the fuck?"

Undaunted, Jean keeps going. "Since that day, so long ago, I sometimes pick up things concerning you. I managed to hear things—things about the people you've gone after, you're father, a man named Sloan—"

Wesley inhales sharply. Any thoughts he entertained of all of this still being a hallucination is gone, gone like an innocent word. Jean continues her explanation.

"I didn't pick up everything though, but I know you kill the bad guys." He wants to laugh oh so badly, to disillusion the girl, but she goes on before he has the chance, "And I knew you were here and that this was my only chance."

"Why is this you're only chance?" He feels like he knows the answer though.

"Laura." She only says the name, but he knows. Jean gave him the memory of her best friend, the one she thought she killed. He has the memory of Jean standing across the room from the supposedly hapless driver that ran the girl over; the memory of Jean overhearing how he would have killed her best friend no matter what.

He knows what she wants, but that doesn't mean he can't be hard-headed about it.

"What exactly do you want me to do about it?" He asks tersely.

She looks him directly in the eye, "I want you to find out why he was going to kill her and end him."

The way she says it sends a cold shiver down his spine. He knows with her powers she could very much order him to follow her ever wish like a puppet, but he refuses to give in just yet.

"I don't know anything about the situation—"

"I'll give you everything I can, I have names—"

"I need payment and I doubt you have that kind of—"

"I'll give you my college savings. I can make my parents hand it over—"

"You're just a kid." He says without any real heat as he moves swings his legs beneath him. As he stands up and stretches out the kinks in his legs, he freezes at her solemn face that is wobbling rather precariously.

"She was my best friend." She states quietly.

Damn her, he thinks, because she looks about ready to cry and some part of him is twisting rather uncomfortably. They do one last stare off before he looks away and heaves out a great sigh. He's lost, he knows.

"I have some orange juice." He grounds out, because that's what kids drink, right?

Jean, the little devil that she is, beams at him through her watery eyes. He opens the small cooler he has near the door and grabs a small bottle of orange juice. He throws it at her and can only stare when it slows down before stopping in mid-air. It slowly floats down into waiting hands and the lid seemingly pops off on its own. He should be scared, but he's not. In fact, he's fascinated. It's all really fascinating. Idly, a word comes to mind. Mutation…mutant.


	3. Chapter 3

Yes, it's been a while. Yes, the beginning's dry and the writing formula has changed. But I _will_ finish this. I hope the longer chapter makes up for it? (okay, okay, I know it doesn't)

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><p>It has been exactly three days since the strange little girl showed herself, and Wesley has never been so annoyed. In fact, he is so annoyed by this overall situation he has forgotten to be annoyed by his rapidly-becoming-a-problem financial situation. He has called up every contact he owns, read every article concerning the girl, Laura, and has even done a few hours of stakeout.<p>

It all lead down to one name: Gary White. The problem was that while Gary White didn't really exist, there wasn't even a clue as to the real man behind the name. This is all so annoying, and yet so strangely exciting that Wesley finds he cannot ignore this case, a case that needs his brains over his bullets.

He's already planning his next move when his non-existent doorbell goes off again. He barely gets up from his makeshift computer desk, already running his hands over one of his handguns. The locks on the door begin twisting themselves, but this isn't alarming. He just watches in fascination as the door unlocks itself. It was terrifying, yet so fascinating the sheer power the little girl held.

The door opens and said girl steps in before shutting it gently behind her; today she is wearing an eye-searing green dress with monkeys on it. He wonders over the sanity of Mrs. Grey for a moment before dismissing the thought and putting the gun back inside his shirt.

He heads back over to his laptop, and begins pulling up his notes, fully intending on using her as a sounding board. Lately, he tends to think better when talking to an "audience". It was just one more annoying thing after another, really.

'Now where to begin?'

'The beginning's always good.' She says to his thought, and "Great," he thinks, she doesn't even bother to move her mouth.

"Would you quit that?" He says without any real heat, still too fascinated over the concept to be annoyed.

"I'm not doing anything!" She replies sounding slightly miffed.

He ignores her and begins telling her the facts. Gary White, fake name, has been known to dabble around the big cities, but mostly keeps to the South. Legally, the name is attached to a storage unit company. Reality, no such storage unit company exists. Company headquarters are said to be in Lexington, Kentucky; it's not. And on, and on the list went; every single paper trail laid by Gary White is false.

"Why don't you just follow that awful man, Arjay?" Jean asks with her thinking face on.

Wesley restrains himself from rolling his eyes, but only just. Mark Arjay was the hit-man that killed Laura; he figures he can be a little sensitive for the girl who has the power to send him even worse headaches. He flatly tells her he already has a tail on him and it'll be a while before his contact gets back to him.

"No, it won't," she says with a "I-know-better-than-you" tone, "he's calling you right now."

"Yeah, ri-" and he is flabbergasted when his cell-phone rings. He rushes to answer it, knowing better to say anything to the girl whose head couldn't possibly get any bigger.

"Yes." Is all he says. He listens as the distorted voice on the other end reports.

Mark Arjay flew all the way to New Orleans, Louisiana, hailed a cab to a bar called Shade's Man Corner and reported to a mysterious person over a telephone. The contact promptly clicks over to a recording of Arjay's side of the conversation.

"This is Arjay. Yeah. She's dead. Yeah, I know it was too loud. You don't have to-what do you mean the wrong one? My statement says-look I'll work it out with Mr. White, himself. He's here in the city, right? Which one? The one with the funny hat? Alright got it. Later."

Wesley's own call ends after the recording; the contact is finished and has already hung up. Putting his phone into his pocket, he stares down at Jean in despair.

"You heard that, right?" He asks, already mentally bemoaning his fate.

"Yeah, we're going to New Orleans!" She nods with a serious face.

Wesley shakes his head sharply, still feeling a little too much to say anything. He grabs the duffle bags and suitcases stacked haphazardly in the corner of the room and lay them out on his bed. He starts packing rather recklessly as a muscle in his face begins twitching.

"New Orleans." He begins slowly, "is home to a lot of things. You know, Black people, French people, Thieving people, Killing people. Oh, and Mardi Gras."

He turns around and with the most serious face she has ever seen, tells her,

"You're not going."

Jean begins her protests, but he beats her to it.

"New Orleans is home to two major organizations, the Thieves Guild and the Assassin's Guild. They both run the city and would love to have my head on a pike. _You're not going."_

He doesn't let her say anymore as he all but throws her out of the house; he's got to pack and he assumes she knows his number if a real emergency pops up. Damn him, but he's gotten rather fond of her in the two days he's gotten to know her; it'll be a bit lonely without the little headache trying to talk his head off his body.

Preparations are made and a plane ticket is bought. He's currently in an airport he can say he honestly hates and wouldn't mind burning to the ground. None of his equipment could feasibly be going with him, so he's got a stash of weaponry being delivered to a certain spot inside the city. There's a chance one of the guilds will sniff it out so he makes sure he was at least able to smuggle a gun and some bullets onboard, not that anyone will ever know.

It takes about an hour and a half before boarding begins, but he does so with a fake smile, a fake name, and a small carry-on bag. He takes his seat next to the aisle and takes out a piece of paper and a pencil from his bag. The loom had given off a name just before he left and he hadn't been in any hurry to decipher it.

"Excuse me, miss? Could you show me my seat?" A very familiar voice asks the stewardess up front.

Wesley can feel his sanity slipping as the stewardess leads a girl with very bright, red hair to the seat across from his. Jean is now wearing a more sensible white shirt and black skirt ensemble that make it look like she just came from recital. The stewardess leaves with a rather vague look covering her face, and Jean sits down with her horribly pink-colored backpack and beams at him.

"What are you doing here?" He hisses at her, careful not to draw too much attention. He can pretty much figure out how she managed to get here if the troubled smile the flight hostess is giving the girl is any indication.

She is all smiles as she says she's always wanted to go to New Orleans. Wesley just swears loudly at her in his mind and she turns just a little pink. Knowing he has no choice because the seats are filling up and it looks like the door's about to close, he manages to tell her, through clenched teeth, in no uncertain terms that she is going to listen to him and obey the rules he sets down.

Her response is to tell him he looks weird with brown eyes, but that his reddish hair was pretty neat. He curses at her out loud this time, drawing scandalous looks from the people around him. He sourly puts his pencil and paper away as the stewardess begins her speech. He's going to have to use this time to revise some of his plans to include babysitting in them.

Part of him can't help but pleased though; he won't be alone again.

The plane lands down in New Orleans, and Wesley can't help but be a bit anxious about being in the city. Normally he would have never taken a direct flight here; he would have landed in a different city, stocked up, and drove the rest of the way. Time was against him, though. White could have already moved on from now.

Jean follows him through the airport and to baggage claim. She had been relatively quiet the whole flight, content with drawing on some paper with colored pencils. Too grown up for crayons, she said. He can't help but feel that she must be picking up on his anxiousness.

They don't even speak to each other until they catch a cab to a nearby hotel. Wesley's more than a bit irritated, he had no plans to stay anywhere near here, but a kid can't exactly sleep in cars. The Winner's Motel isn't the greatest, the place looks like it's seen better days, but it's cheap and best of all, free from Guild influences if his contacts are to be believed.

"Here you go, Mr. Preston."

He is almost in disbelief as he is handed an actual key. Jean is beside him on her tippy-toes trying to catch a look at such a thing. He pushes out her out of the office and, suitcase in hand, heads for their room. It is room 1911, the numbers are faded, but for some reason they really stick out to him. Shrugging, he opens the door to a surprisingly clean room, even if it does look thirty years out of date with peeling paint.

Jean rushes pass him to bounce on one of the two rather small beds that almost take up the entire room; her obnoxious backpack bouncing beside her. He heaves his heavy suitcase onto the other bed and begins a bug search. He rubs his temples as he feels yet another head ache coming on, but there doesn't seem to be any type of surveillance attached to the room.

He makes a mental list of things he needs to get when he goes out in search of his weapon stash. Pain medicine, food, a newspaper…and hair dye, he drily notes looking at the Jean's red hair as she flops around on the bed like a fish. He doesn't ever want to know what goes on in that head of hers.

"I'm going out. I probably won't be back until the morning." He tells her, "Don't open the door for anyone, but me. Don't leave this room without me. Don't call anyone, but me. _Don't do anything without me. _We clear?"

She has a look of consideration on her face, "Can I at least watch t.v? Or use the bathroom? Or-"

"Don't be a smart-ass."

It's a good thirty-minute walk to where he needs to go, and he needs to keep an eye on his pockets at all time, but walks tend to give more information on the area. He figures he'll try to find a chatty person later for more information. Right now he needed to concentrate on getting his equipment back to the motel room without anyone being the wiser.

"White."

He stops but doesn't turn. He's on a corner of sidewalk, in front of a store, but pretends to be considering its sales from the newspaper in his hand. There's a twenty percent discount on Marvel brand wheat bread…

"He's been making trouble for the Thieves lately, they're getting restless. I wonder if he plans to ally himself with the Assassins."

This is all spoken with a speculative hushed whisper. Wesley wants to know what dumbass would actually say all this out loud, but doesn't give away any knowledge of hearing. To his disappointment, the man says no more, and he enters the store to get the rest of the items on his list. He looks at the man sitting on the bus stop bench and memorizes his face. He's going to be looking for him later.

It's about three in the morning, and he's lugging three very big, very heavy suitcases behind him, and he needs to use the bathroom. He's irritated, and annoyed with this whole thing. He's pretty sure he was almost spotted by a Guild member using a hearing aide, and he's just as sure that his target, White, is getting caught up in the Assassins.

It's almost a relief that Jean has the door open for him, no doubt having heard him coming. He's about to tell her she should be getting some sleep, when her nervous and guilty expression filters through his tired brain.

"What did you do?" He asks, willing the girl to say something like, "I broke a lamp" or "I found a puppy".

She looks down at her hands, takes in a deep breath before rushing it out, "Don't get mad. She really needed someplace to sleep tonight."

He has a horrible feeling he knows what she's on about and sets the suitcases down outside the door. He barely walks through the doorway before stopping and staring at what was curled up on his bed.

"Her name's Ororo." Jean quietly pointed out.

It wasn't a puppy like he hoped, but a small African girl with white hair that was currently sitting on _his _bed and staring at him like some kind of frightened, wild animal.

"Damn it."


End file.
